


Bikes

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Kid Fic, Kid John, Kid Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-23 21:45:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/626842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every child learns to ride a bike, they all learn for different reasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bikes

“You gunna learn to ride a bike, John.” Harriett had said, planting her hands on her hips. “M'not havin a lil brother who can't ride a bike proper.” 

John Watson, age seven, slightly pudgy and shy as anything stared at his shoes a moment. Then eyed the imposing assembly of metal that was his bike. It was not a bad bike, it had been Harry's before she'd gotten too big for it. Thankfully, she'd wanted a proper 'boys' bike, and not some pink thing with tassels all the other girls had. So it wouldn't have been too embarrassing...except when he'd crash.

“I dun really wanna Harry.” He mumbled.

“Too bad.” His sister pushed him forward. “Now I'll hold it.”

“But its not even got training wheels!”

“You're -seven-.” She sighed in exasperation. “Only babies need training wheels, now lets go.”

John swallowed hard and made a move to climb onto the bike.

 

 

“Mummy.” Sherlock stood at the edge of his mother's drafting table, his nose barely making it past the edge. “Mummy.”

“What is it my darling?” His mother was hunched over a fairly intricate drawing. 

“I want to go ride bikes.”

“Not now my love.” His mother paused a moment, reaching over to her table of supplies to select a new pen.

Sherlock glowered ineffectively at his distracted mother. “It is healthy for a boy my age to get out and have exercise.”

“Ask your brother to take you.”

Mother Holmes was only vaguely aware of the disgruntled sound the sentient mass of ebony curls made as it shuffled grumpily out of the room. It was not that she had no time for her children, there was always time. It was just that Sherlock did not like conforming to the family schedule.

 

“You can do it stop being such a baby!” Harry yelled from a few feet behind him.

John had managed to peddle all of three feet down the side walk when the bike began to wobble. He shut his eyes and froze in place, curling his lips inwards and willing the bike to steady. “Harry I don't wanna ride bikes!”

“Only wussies are afraid to ride bikes!”

“I'm not a wussy!” John's voice cracked slightly. He hated himself for just giving her more of a reason to taunt him. He tried to peddle again, but the bike wobbled and he crashed into the grass. Such monumental failure sent John's lip to quivering.

“Ugh.” Harry threw her hands up and stomped back towards their house. “I'm not going to help you if you're going to cry about it!

John sniffled and pulled himself to his feet, slowly righting the bike and stared at it with new found contempt. He didn't even want to ride bikes.

His hands grasped the handle bars and he tried to climb back on.

 

“MY-CROFT” Sherlock hollered from the foot of the stairs. “MYCROFT I WANT TO RIDE BIKES NOW.”

Mycroft, thoroughly invested in his own activities, and having no time for the needs of a younger brother, pretended not to hear.

“IT'S VERY IMPORTANT.” Sherlock began to climb the stairs, repeating various arguments he'd learned for the benefit of doing things he wanted to do. “FOR A BOY OF MY AGE-”

Mycroft's door slammed shut and locked. Sherlock stood there five steps up and fumed. He turned and stomped loudly down the stairs. Fine. If no one wanted to take him out on his own, he'd take himself out.

Not that he needed anyone to ride bikes with him anyway.

 

John peddled slowly down the side walk, and very slowly eased around. He'd progressed on an oval track of about three feet forwards and back. Bike slowly wobbling, his hands trembling just as much as his lip. But he was making progress. He sniffed again and rubbed his face against his shoulder to wipe it, too worried to remove his hands just yet. He'd show her. He wasn't a wussy. Stupid bikes. Stupid Harry.

 

Sherlock peddled effortlessly down the garden path, serpentining as he went. One foot kicked out to smack the bushes that lined the walk sending a flurry of leaves everywhere. Mainly because he knew he wasn't suppose to. He stood up on his peddles and picked up speed, past the packed in paving stones to where the road turned briefly to dirt. His brows knit and his lips pulled into a mischievous smirk, he glanced about for a moment to make sure no one was around and then gave a mighty tug on the handle bars as he'd seen his older brother do once when mummy wasn't looking. The front wheel popped up and Sherlock drifted for a few magical moments on one wheel. Except, he'd not quite gotten the science of 'wheelies' down pat and he continued to drift backwards until he was laying on his back quite suddenly and his bike crashed atop him.

It hurt. He'd skint the palms of his hands and they stung terribly.

Most of all he was angry. He grasped his bike up in his tiny hands and shoved it, nearly tripping over it. Then he kicked it for good measure with a disgruntled whimper and crouched down, sucking on the heel of his hand with tears stinging the corners of his eyes.

Stupid bikes.

 

John learned to ride his bike. Once he'd realized that wheels meant freedom, bike riding seemed a much more desirable activity. When things got bad at home, he's hop on his bike and speed along the hills and slopes of his neighborhood, journeying as far as he'd dare and yet close enough to make it back before dark if he needed. 

He'd ride with the other kids, making somewhat questionable ramps to bike off of, resulting in glorious albeit brief periods of gliding through the air. He'd learned to pop wheelies, and to skid his tires without falling off, they'd find the tallest hills in the neighborhood and careen down them without care. The risk made if fun, even if he broke his arm that one time when he didn't stop, struck a curve and flew head first into Mrs. Bucket's front garden.

It was okay. They weren't so scary anymore. The risk was fun. Most of all it was freeing. 

 

Sherlock had stopped waiting for when everyone else was willing to go outside. He did things on his own time and woe be unto those that tried to stop him. He'd come home with scrapes and bruises, his clothes torn and dirty. He wasn't good at bike tricks, not like he'd seen other children attempting and succeeding. It didn't stop him, he learned the methods behind it all but found it far more difficult in practice.

Never did it stop him, even when he'd hurl his bike off into the grass in anger, and pause a moment to hiss as his bleeding knees or his raw and reddened elbows. He'd been bought protective gear, a dreadful helmet, elbow pads, knee pads, gloves, special clothing. He left it all behind.

Eventually he stopped with tricks, and instead he traveled. Peddling far out past the family garden. Down the relatively vacant streets of their country home. He'd skid down hills and drag his good shoes along them, utterly ruining them. He'd pack himself lunches and books and drive as far as he could away from home to whatever secretive little spot that'd suit his fancy. He's abandon the bike, now just a means of escape and wandering.

He'd stay there until evening began to fall and a perturbed Mycroft would come searching for him. Then as his brother would try and walk along beside Sherlock who pushed his bike as Mycroft related scoldings and warning of how dangerous it was for Sherlock to wander out on his own.

Sherlock would jump onto his bike and speed down the roads away from him. Content in his own little world which he now had some semblance of control over.


End file.
